


Show Him What He's Missing

by airspaniel, dance_across



Series: Commemorative Photos [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Comeplay, Finger Sucking, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Not At All Dracula, Nude Photos, Orgasm Delay, POV Phichit, Phichit Chulanont is a Little Shit, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Roleplay, Roommates, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, proxy fucking, sex tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9868835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: A good friend would get Yuuri some pants. A good friend would let Yuuri take a second to get dressed and compose himself after getting walked in on like that. But Phichit isn’t a good friend; Phichit is Yuuri’sbestfriend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, [@notsaviforwork](http://notsaviforwork.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr posted [this amazing comic](http://notsaviforwork.tumblr.com/post/155321620953/phichit-and-yuuri-back-in-detroit-phichit-is-a) (warning: NSFW), and we started talking about it, and, uh... ten thousand words of porn later, here we are. Oops?

It wasn’t the worst date ever. Just kind of disappointing. The guy was cute enough, and nice enough, but he kind of glazed over whenever Phichit started talking about skating—and since Phichit doesn’t really care about a capella singing, it’s probably just as well that the night ended early. Better luck next time, right?

Tossing a cheery wave at the RA on duty at the front desk, Phichit crosses the dorm’s lobby and climbs the stairs to his hall. Maybe Yuuri will feel like watching a movie or something. It’s been two whole weeks since the last time they watched _The King and the Skater_ together, and that honestly sounds like the best thing ever.

He opens the door quietly; even though he’s home early, it’s late enough that Yuuri might already be asleep. And Phichit is a very considerate roommate. But Yuuri is… oh, he is definitely not sleeping.

Phichit recognizes the video that’s playing from the sound alone, and it’s maybe a little troubling that he can identify a specific Victor Nikiforov interview from less than five seconds of audio, but given who his roommate is, it was probably inevitable. Besides, this is Yuuri’s _favorite_ interview—the one from just after the free skate performance that clinched Victor the gold at Torino, when he was still fresh off the ice and flushed with adrenaline and more than a little breathless with exertion and excitement.

Only this time, Victor’s not the only one panting.

Yuuri’s shirt is rucked up around his ribs. His legs are askew, one knee pointing skyward and the other hooked over the edge of the little twin bed, his socked foot almost brushing the floor. Yuuri’s pants are… absent. His left hand is fisted in his sheets, and his right hand is fisted around—

So, the thing is, it’s not like Phichit’s never seen Yuuri’s cock before. They’re roommates. They’re rinkmates. They’ve stood in front of mirrors together, wearing barely anything, frowning at their respective waistlines and complaining about their respective meal plans. They share a shower. Add to that the fact that Yuuri apparently grew up in some sort of clothing-optional let’s-all-take-baths-together hotel situation (about which Phichit knows very little, but would like to know a whole lot more), and the result is a young, attractive Japanese skater who is very shy about things like _being ambitious_ and _having human feelings_ , but very not shy about body-related things.

It’s just that Phichit never imagined seeing Yuuri’s cock in quite this _context._

After what seems like an eternity, although it’s probably more like two seconds, Yuuri registers Phichit’s presence. His hand goes still, his whole body goes tense, and his head turns toward the door, shock and horror etched into every feature.

Phichit starts to say: “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll just go—”

And Yuuri, at the same moment, starts to say: “No, no, wait, it’s not what it looks like, it’s—”

But Phichit stops, because where will he go? Out to the hallway, just to come back in another five minutes? Well, maybe, if he were a nobler person—but this is really far too interesting a situation to leave.

Yuuri stops too, and Phichit figures it’s because (a) it’s _exactly_ what it looks like, and also (b) Yuuri’s slightly too busy flailing for his duvet and burying himself underneath it to prioritize the finishing of sentences.

Then Yuuri is covered up to the neck, leaving only his apple-red face visible. Phichit is still lurking in the doorway. There is silence.

Except for the sound of Victor Nikiforov’s heavily-accented English, saying the same words Phichit’s heard about a thousand times before: “Of course the program has a story, and of course it was inspired by something. But if I told you what that something was, and if I told you the story in words, don’t you think it might be ruined?”

On Yuuri’s laptop screen, Victor winks. Phichit and Yuuri both watch.

Yuuri pulls the duvet over his head, too.

It’s impossibly cute.

Phichit would laugh if he wasn’t sure that Yuuri would take it absolutely the wrong way. He clicks the door shut and considers the mortified lump on the bed. Sure, it would be easy enough to get Yuuri some pants, to let Yuuri take a second to get dressed and compose himself. And maybe that’s even what he should do, what a _good friend_ would do.

But then Victor laughs, low and delighted, and even through the distortion of the laptop speakers it makes Yuuri shiver under his blanket. That’s when Phichit stops worrying about what a good friend would do, and starts thinking about what a _best_ friend would do.

“I’m sorry I interrupted you, Yuuri,” he says, taking off his coat and scarf, hanging them up on the door rack like it’s any other day. He’s got to be a little careful, now that he has this brilliant idea.

“It’s fine!” Yuuri says through the duvet. “I just—”

“It’s okay,” Phichit says, saving him from finishing that sentence. He crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, leans forward to pause the video before it runs out. “You really like this video, don’t you?”

Yuuri laughs, just on the edge of hysterical. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“I just did,” Phichit says, tugging at the covers until he can see his roommate’s face again. Yuuri’s face is still red, his hair all mussed, but he seems a little calmer. Good news for Phichit’s idea. “ _Why_ do you like it so much?”

Yuuri looks at the freeze frame on the screen: Victor smiling at the camera, a pink flush over his pale and perfect skin, a trail of sweat tracing over the side of his face, and another over the long line of his throat. He looks like he’s been working hard and he couldn’t be happier about it.

“I dunno,” Yuuri says. “He’s just so…”

“Sexy, right?”

Yuuri blushes again. “Well, yeah.”

Phichit leans forward and starts the video over from the beginning.

“—another flawlessly beautiful performance from Russia’s legendary Victor Nikiforov,” the interviewer is saying. Not that it matters. What matters is Victor, just off the ice and flush with sweat and adrenaline.

“Move over,” says Phichit, and Yuuri looks up at him, uncomprehending. So Phichit makes a shooing motion with his hand and says, this time more clearly, “Move over. And maybe sit up.”

Victor has started speaking, which means Yuuri’s eyes are drifting back toward his laptop. His jaw tightens as he glances from Victor to Phichit and back again. He swallows. Then he takes a deep breath, sits up, and scoots over.

Phichit sits down next to Yuuri, like they do this all the time. (They don’t.) He peers at Victor, who’s making rounded, evocative gestures with his gloved hands as he describes his feelings about his performance. He peers at Yuuri, who seems all but frozen in place as he… well, what he’s probably doing is waiting to see what Phichit will do next.

Good thing he doesn’t have very long to wait.

Phichit slings an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, his elbow brushing against the headboard. Yuuri sucks in a breath, and he can see Yuuri’s lips move, starting to form words that are probably _What_ or _Why_ or similar—but then, on the screen, The Hand Thing happens.

It’s a small, innocuous gesture: Victor runs his left hand through his hair, brushing it back from his face, then extends the motion with fingers tracing the line of his neck, brushing lightly across his collarbone, then dipping down into the plunging neckline of his costume, before flitting away into another gesture entirely. He’s recreating a piece of choreography from the free skate he just performed—but, divorced from the movement of the rest of his body, the movement is jarringly sensual.

Even Phichit thinks so, and Victor, while definitely pretty, is _not_ Phichit’s type.

Yuuri, however. The sheer number of times Phichit has caught Yuuri replaying those ten seconds of video? The sheer number of times Phichit has seen Yuuri trying to incorporate that exact hand movement into his own programs?

Yuuri likes The Hand Thing. A _lot_.

So when The Hand Thing happens on Yuuri’s screen, Phichit matches the movement with his own hand: his fingers combing through Yuuri’s hair, moving down his neck and across his collarbone, then down again, coming to rest just under the hem of Yuuri’s T-shirt. Yuuri’s shoulders go tense under Phichit’s arm, and he makes a noise that Phichit can only describe as a _squeak_.

Victor, on the screen, moves his hand away—but Phichit, here in their dorm room, does not. He lets it linger on Yuuri’s warm skin, feeling the racing heart underneath. 

“He _is_ pretty sexy,” Phichit admits, tucking himself closer until he can rest his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri is still stiff, and he may not actually be breathing, but he leans into the contact just a little bit.

On screen, Victor is laughing (again), a breathless sound this time. “I just hoped it would be enough for a gold, but another world record? Wow!” His laughter trails off into a pleased little hum—which Yuuri echoes. Phichit’s pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Do you think he sounds like that in bed?” Phichit asks. Murmurs really, as close as he is to Yuuri’s ear. “All breathy and satisfied like that?”

“Phichit…”

“What if he does?” Phichit’s fingers stroke idly over Yuuri’s collarbone, back and forth, and he can feel his friend trembling against him. “What would it take to get him to make that sound, I wonder?” Yuuri whines, and Phichit is _delighted_. “What would you do, Yuuri?”

“I… Phichit, what is this, I _can’t_ ,” Yuuri says, which isn’t actually a sentence.

“Sure you can,” Phichit encourages, nudging his nose affectionately against Yuuri’s temple. “Tell me what you want to do.”

“But we’re not…” Yuuri finally looks over at Phichit, as the interviewer asks another question in the background. “You and me, we—”

“No, no!” Phichit says, laughing. “We’re not.”

Yuuri looks relieved. Then confused. Then _more_ confused. “But…”

Phichit strokes his hand upward again, tracing Yuuri’s delicate collarbone with his index finger. “Stop _thinking_. Just tell me. Tell me what you want.”

Over on the screen, the interviewer has stopped talking, and Victor smiles prettily at her. “You would think that, but do you see my coach over there? I’m sure he already has at least twenty things he’d like to lecture me about. There’s always room for improvement, no?”

Yuuri’s eyes are trained on the screen. His mouth ghosts over the words he’s heard Victor say hundreds of times. His heart is going to vibrate right through his ribs, if he’s not careful.

Phichit leans in and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s shoulder. “What do you want?” he murmurs into Yuuri’s skin. The next breath Yuuri takes is so sudden, so deep, that it’s almost a sob.

“Him,” Yuuri whispers. “I want _him_.”

The words are so painfully sincere that Phichit can’t even bring himself to make fun. He doesn’t say _Well, obviously_ or _I could have told you that_ tonight—just presses another quick kiss to Yuuri’s shoulder, and says two words: “I know.”

Yuuri lifts his chin. “I want him to want _me_.”

“How could he not?” Phichit says. “Look at you.”

Yuuri’s head whips around, surprise and suspicion brightening his eyes. Phichit just smiles. Smiles and smiles and moves his hand from around Yuuri’s shoulders to around Yuuri’s back. And then lower. Yuuri’s hip is bare, and he jumps when Phichit’s fingers make contact with his skin.

“Phichit, I’m not sure—”

“You’d be sure if I were Victor,” Phichit says, wiggling his eyebrows just enough to remind Yuuri that this is supposed to be _fun_ , this is a _game_.

Yuuri pauses. Nods to himself. The next time he speaks, a smile has crept into his voice: “If you were Victor, I’m pretty sure you’d already be on top of me.”

Well, that’s a cue if Phichit’s ever heard one. He jumps up and straddles Yuuri, pinning him to the bed.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, wide-eyed.

Phichit grins. “Like this?” The covers are shoved down around Yuuri’s waist, and his blush goes all the way from the tips of his ears to where Phichit’s hands rest on his chest, where his shirt has ridden up.

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs. “Except, you don’t look much like him.” He’s teasing, so Phichit knows he’s fine. But on the other hand, he’s _teasing_ , which means he’s still thinking too much.

“You’re just not using your imagination,” Phichit counters. “Close your eyes.” Yuuri does, and Phichit slides his hands up and over his pectorals, the balls of his shoulders and down his arms until he can wrap them around Yuuri’s wrists, holding them to the bed.

He leans down to drag his slightly parted mouth up the line of Yuuri’s throat, and then, in his very best Victor Nikiforov voice, he says, “I want you so much, Yuuri…”

Yuuri bursts out laughing so hard he nearly throws Phichit off. “What the hell was that?”

Phichit pulls back and pouts a little. “A Russian accent. You couldn’t tell?”

“You sounded like Dracula!”

“It wasn’t that bad!”

Yuuri’s still laughing, tears gathered in his long, dark lashes until he shoves his glasses up his face so he can dig the heels of his hands into his eyes. “No, it really was. Phichit, oh my _god_ …”

“Fine, no accents,” Phichit concedes. He reaches out and takes Yuuri’s glasses off his forehead, setting them on the shelf next to the bed. Yuuri’s quieted down, still chuckling a little, one hand still covering his face and the other resting on Phichit’s thigh. Phichit lets his lips brush Yuuri’s ear when he says, “But I still think you should close your eyes.”

Yuuri does, even as he protests, “Phichit, we don’t have to…”

“It’s fun, though, isn’t it? Here, I have an idea.” Phichit shifts to the side, sliding up the bed until he can put his back to the headboard, pulling Yuuri up with him until he’s basically sitting in Phichit’s lap, back to chest. The duvet is tangled around Yuuri’s legs, too far down to pretend at modesty, and the view from Phichit’s perch looking over Yuuri’s shoulder is _gorgeous_.

“Eyes still closed?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri nods, and they listen together as Victor tells the reporter that there’s something important he has to do before the medals, but it was nice talking to her. That’s where the video ends.

“Did you hear that? He’s got something important to do.” Phichit’s hands wander under Yuuri’s shirt, pushing it up his chest again. “What if that something was you?” He brushes his thumbs over Yuuri’s nipples and gets a soft gasp in reward. “What if he couldn’t stand another minute without looking at you? Or touching you?”

Yuuri’s breath shakes out of him, and his cock twitches against his thigh as he starts to get hard again.

Phichit smiles. “I bet Victor would love to see how turned on you are just thinking about him.”

“Or he’d think I was a weirdo for being completely obsessed with him,” Yuuri says. His voice lacks conviction, though; he’s not protesting so much as asking Phichit to correct him. Progress. Good.

“Or,” Phichit says, his lips just millimeters from Yuuri’s ear, “he’d think you were the hottest thing he’s ever seen.”

Another sharp intake of breath; Phichit can feel the movement of Yuuri’s lungs under his hand, and he rewards Yuuri with another gentle brush of thumbs over nipples, which makes him shudder again. One of Yuuri’s hands, which have been staunchly fisted at his hips, begins to flex, as if wanting to reach for himself. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

“Just look at you,” Phichit says. “I bet Victor Nikiforov hasn’t seen a cock that pretty in his entire life, hmm?”

Yuuri laughs, high-pitched and happy and nervous, and he replies, “You mean aside from his own?”

Phichit pushes the duvet further down, almost to Yuuri’s knees. “Oh, no, he’d be first in line to say that his own’s got _nothing_ on yours.” A swipe of thumb over nipple again, and then a quick pinch, which sends a visible shudder straight down to Yuuri’s cock—which really is a pretty attractive cock, as cocks go. Especially now, hardening right before Phichit’s eyes, the head just starting to peek out from its sheath. “He wants to touch you, Yuuri. He wants to _taste_ you.”

Yuuri groans, the sound vibrating through his back and right into Phichit’s chest.

“But you can’t let him,” Phichit whispers. “Not yet. He has to wait until after medals, right?” There’s no logic behind this, but considering the strangled sound Yuuri makes, it was probably the right thing to say. So Phichit continues: “But that doesn’t mean you can’t show him what he’s missing.”

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri moans, and this isn’t the sound of someone who’s overthinking things anymore. This is the sound of someone who _wants_.

Phichit takes one of Yuuri’s hands, guiding it slowly toward his swelling cock. “Go on. Show him what he can have after he comes back to you with a gold medal.”

Yuuri’s breath hitches as their joined hands drag over the outside of his thigh, skin on skin so close to where it’s needed, and Phichit holds on just long enough to make sure that Yuuri keeps going. His hand falls to Yuuri’s hip, holding him steady as Yuuri makes contact, fingertips following the thick vein on the underside of his cock from root to tip, pressing his length up against his belly. He shudders and Phichit watches a fat bead of precome well up and drip, leaving a slick smear on Yuuri’s stomach.

Phichit licks his lips and swallows around a suddenly dry mouth. His own dick is starting to protest being trapped in his date-night jeans, but he does his best to ignore it. 

“That’s good, Yuuri,” he says. “Does that feel good?”

Yuuri turns his head to hide his face against Phichit’s neck, but he doesn’t stop moving his hand, up and down, slow, teasing himself. 

“Tell him,” Phichit prompts, and Yuuri moans again, soft and low.

“ _Victor_ ,” he says, breathless and a little hesitant, a little nervous.

Phichit smiles, and tightens his hand on Yuuri’s hip, the other one splayed over Yuuri’s chest. “He likes that, Yuuri. Say it again.”

“ _Oh_ … ah, _Victor_ … feels so good…” Yuuri’s cock is fully hard now, leaking against his belly and shiny wet where his foreskin has pulled back, his fingers slipping over the ridge as he strokes himself in earnest. 

“Fuck, Yuuri, you’re so sexy,” Phichit says—and it’s true. It’s surprising, but true: The sight of Yuuri fucking up into his own hand is the hottest thing Phichit’s ever seen. But this is going to be over way too quickly if Yuuri keeps going like this.

“Here, slow down a second,” he says, tugging at Yuuri’s shirt. “Let’s take this off and let Victor see all of you.”

Yuuri stills his hand, shaking with the effort, and he sits up enough to let Phichit get his shirt off. Phichit takes advantage of the opportunity to unfasten his own jeans. The relief is so good that he groans a little, presses his forehead against Yuuri’s shoulder for a moment.

“That’s better, right?” he says, brushing a kiss against the back of his friend’s neck and pulling him back against his chest again. “You look so good like this, Yuuri.”

“Phichit…” Yuuri squirms, self-consciousness creeping into his arousal. 

“Shh,” Phichit says, swiping his fingers through the sticky mess on Yuuri’s stomach. He wants a taste so badly, but that’s not what this is about. He lifts his hand to Yuuri’s mouth instead, pressing two fingertips to Yuuri’s lips.

“Let’s really give Victor a show.”

Yuuri opens his mouth without even hesitating. Phichit, delighted, runs his fingers along the inside of Yuuri’s bottom lip—and then Yuuri’s tongue darts forward, tasting, sending a thrill through Phichit’s entire body.

“That’s so good, Yuuri,” Phichit purrs. “Isn’t that good? Don’t you wish Victor could taste it too?”

“Mmmm,” Yuuri says, and Phichit feels him smile around his fingers. He pulls his hand away just long enough to hear Yuuri’s response, which is: “He can’t, though. Not until he brings me a gold.”

And Yuuri dives for Phichit’s fingers again, and Phichit is grinning so hard he’s pretty sure his face is about to break. He never, _never_ thought he’d get to see Yuuri playing like this, so loose, so _free_ —and he definitely never thought that he could be the cause of it. The thought fills him with such an unexpected tenderness that he finds himself pressing a whole row of kisses down the line of Yuuri’s neck.

“Good,” he says. “Good. You tell him.”

Yuuri sucks greedily at Phichit’s fingers, pulling them deeper into his mouth, running the point of his tongue over each knuckle, swirling over the pads, glancing over the nails. Phichit briefly wonders what else that tongue might be capable of—but _not now, not now, not now._

Except… yes. Now.

“Show him,” Phichit says, nudging his nose against the back of Yuuri’s ear. “Show him what that mouth of yours can do. Make him _want_ it.”

Yuuri’s tongue swipes, broad and flat, against the undersides of Phichit’s fingers—and Phichit adjusts his hips just a little, because _oh god_ , the things that tongue is doing to him. He can’t let Yuuri know, though, at least not yet. He can’t risk bringing Yuuri out of this delicate fantasy they’ve created. Not now.

Yuuri’s hand still hovers near his cock—not on, just _near_ —fingers pressing into the dark hair surrounding it. Phichit recognizes the pressure point for what it is. Yuuri is trying to hold himself in check while he waits until he can touch himself again.

While he waits, Phichit realizes with a thrill, for _permission_ to touch himself again.

Phichit moves his free hand down to cover Yuuri’s, his fingertips just an inch, if that, away from Yuuri’s cock. “Look at Victor’s face, Yuuri. You can see how much he wants to touch you, but he knows he can’t. So he wants to see you touch yourself again, doesn’t he?”

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri says, around Phichit’s fingers.

“But you’re not going to give in that easily, are you?”

Yuuri shakes his head, the movement making his teeth graze across Phichit’s knuckles.

“Here,” says Phichit, grasping Yuuri’s hand and bringing it up to his chest. “Touch yourself here instead. Show him every single part of your body that he can’t have yet.”

Yuuri’s thumb and forefinger close over one of his nipples, and Phichit gets to watch over his shoulder as he pinches the hardened flesh—and then _twists_ , making himself whimper.

Phichit draws his fingers out of Yuuri’s mouth. This is starting to get to his head. _Both_ of his heads. But when Yuuri, finally free to speak again, starts murmuring Victor’s name, Phichit realizes that this option has just as much of an effect on him.

“Victor,” Yuuri says breathlessly, pulling and pulling at his own nipple while his cock, fat and heavy with desire, twitches against his belly. “Victor. _Victor_. Don’t take your eyes off me. Don’t you dare.”

Phichit’s fingers are wet with Yuuri’s saliva, and he takes advantage of that, sliding them in a soft circle around the nipple that Yuuri isn’t currently abusing. Yuuri arches hard into the touch, head thrown back against Phichit’s shoulder as he pants.

“He’s watching,” Phichit reassures, kind of breathless at the way his friend is writhing in his lap. “He can’t look away, Yuuri, he’s so hungry for you.”

“Fuck,” Yuuri cries as his cock jerks hard against his stomach. He grabs at it frantically, clenching hard at the base and holding his breath. Phichit holds his breath, too, and lets out a shaky exhale when Yuuri doesn’t come. Good. That’s so good. It means they can keep playing.

“Wow,” Phichit says, lips moving against the sensitive spot just under Yuuri’s ear. “You were really that close? Just from Victor watching you?”

Yuuri gasps—a wet, ragged sound—and his hand relaxes around his dick. But he doesn’t let it go. “Yeah, yes… oh, god…”

“Then why did you stop? Don’t you want him to see how gorgeous you are when you come?”

“ _Not yet_ ,” Yuuri breathes, and Phichit hides his grin in his friend’s hair. This is his new favorite game.

“Yuuri, you’re perfect,” he says. “Victor thinks so, too.”

Yuuri’s knee knocks against Phichit’s as he reflexively tries to spread his legs wider—and oh, _oh_ , that gives Phichit another idea. He moves his hand from where it hovers over Yuuri’s, so close but not actually touching his cock, and it would be so, so easy to skim his fingers up and over, to have Yuuri fucking into the circle of _his_ fingers instead of his own… but he saves that thought for later. Instead, he slides his fingers down into the warm crease where Yuuri’s inner thigh meets his body, the back of his knuckles just barely brushing the heavy weight of his balls.

Yuuri sucks in a breath. Phichit drags his hand down Yuuri’s thigh until he can get a grip under his knee and pull his leg even further open, up and out until Yuuri’s knee is hooked over Phichit’s leg, and he can hold him open without using his hands.

“Since you don’t want to let Victor see you come yet,” Phichit murmurs, raking his nails lightly over the pale skin of Yuuri’s inner thigh, watching goosebumps spring up in response, “what _do_ you want to show him, Yuuri? Where else do you want him to touch you?”

“I want,” Yuuri says raggedly. “I want, um…”

“Come on,” Phichit says, savoring the delicious way that Yuuri’s thigh is shivering against his hand. “You can show him. He _wants_ you to show him.”

Yuuri’s hand drifts down, down, and Phichit cranes his neck to better see his friend’s fingers tracing a line around his cock, under his balls, across the skin below, and his hips tilt upwards, just so, and—

“I can’t,” Yuuri says, tension returning to his shoulders as his hand goes still. “I don’t usually—not that I don’t _want_ —but—”

“But that’s not what you usually do?” Phichit offers, only a little bit disappointed.

Yuuri nods.

“That’s just fine.” Phichit smiles, even though Yuuri can’t see. “Is it that you don’t like the idea of being filled up, or that you don’t like the idea of your own fingers?”

Yuuri answers, quickly enough that it’s obvious this isn’t the first time he’s considered the question: “The second one. I know it’s weird, but…”

“It’s not weird!” says Phichit, absolutely meaning it. “Everyone likes what they like. And the real question is: _do_ you want Victor to touch you there?”

Yuuri’s cock twitches, and his hips cant forward again as he tries and fails to stifle a groan. “Yes, god, _yes_.”

“How?” Phichit asks.

“With his fingers,” Yuuri says. “And his mouth, and his… um, his, his cock.”

The last word is almost a whisper, and Phichit’s whole body thrills with it. “You want Victor’s cock inside you? Is that what you want, Yuuri?”

“Yes.” Yuuri’s voice is strained now. “Yes, yes, so much, yes.”

“Then let’s show him, shall we?” Phichit presses one more kiss to Yuuri’s neck, then eases him forward. “Here, let me get up.”

Yuuri obliges, leaning forward just long enough that Phichit can extricate himself, before scooting back and propping himself up against the headboard. This is the first time Phichit has seen Yuuri from this angle, and it’s… well, it’s a hell of a thing to see. He wonders if Yuuri will let him take a picture.

But that’s a question for later. First, he has a mission. Darting over to his side of the room, he opens the top drawer in his desk, immediately finding the item he had in mind. He holds it up for Yuuri to see.

“It’s mine,” he explains. “It’s clean, I promise, but we can put a condom on it if you want to.”

Yuuri shakes his head slowly, eyes wide with amazement, or maybe just surprise. “It’s… sparkly. It’s _bright red_. And _sparkly_. Hey, wait a second…” Yuuri’s gaze moves upward, to the wall above Phichit’s bed, where there are three framed, collectible posters from _The King and the Skater_.

All of the posters have the same bright red, sparkly border.

A slow grin spreads across Yuuri’s face. “You bought that to match your posters?”

“ _Obviously_ I did,” Phichit says, shamelessly returning the grin. “Now, do you want to use it or not?”

Yuuri hesitates, but only for a second. But then his eyes darken, and he sets his jaw. And he holds out his hand.

Phichit tosses him the dildo and reaches back into the drawer for his lube and a couple of condoms. Better safe than sorry, after all. When he looks back at the bed, Yuuri is staring at the toy in his hand with a look of concentration that would honestly be funny in different circumstances.

“Okay?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri nods, wrapping his fingers around the silicone as if it were a real cock.

“It’s so big,” he says, and Phichit wants to laugh. He’s got others at home that make this one look like nothing, but it’s still his favorite.

“That’s just because you’ve never done this before,” Phichit says, climbing back onto the bed and kneeling in between Yuuri’s spread legs. “We have to get you ready for it.”

He can see that Yuuri is starting to worry again, even though he’s still hard and isn’t hiding from his arousal anymore, so he slaps the outside of Yuuri’s hip to get his attention. Yuuri startles and looks up from the dildo. Phichit grins and leans back on his heels.

“If you get on your hands and knees for me, Yuuri, I can help you,” he says. “You can hide your face in the pillow and pretend that Victor is touching you.”

Yuuri is turning over almost before Phichit finishes his sentence, dropping the dildo to brace himself on his hands, hips pushed back in eager anticipation, and… and Phichit is pretty sure no one else has ever seen Yuuri like this. Phichit is the first, and he feels so, so lucky.

His iPhone is a hard line of heat against the front of his thigh, reminding him that he’s got a camera _right there_ , and he pulls it out and tosses it on the bed next to the lube. His hand brushes his cock, still trapped in the fabric of his boxer briefs, rubbing up against the open fly of his jeans. _Not now, not now…_

Yuuri’s hips wiggle, an extension of the way his shoulders shimmy when he’s excited, and he sighs. “ _Victor_. Come on. Don’t make me wait.”

“He’s taking his time,” Phichit says, reaching for the lube. “You look so delicious like this, he doesn’t want to rush.” Yuuri drops his head in surrender, only to jerk it back up again when Phichit splays a hand over his asscheek, spreading him open.

“Please, Victor! Touch me, _please_ ,” Yuuri begs—and so Phichit does, rubbing the slick tip of his middle finger in gentle circles against Yuuri’s rim. The muscle is tight under his touch, and Yuuri’s breath is hitched and uneven.

“Just breathe,” Phichit soothes, keeping his strokes soft and gentle, getting Yuuri used to the sensation. “Relax, Yuuri. He wants to make you feel good. Will you let Victor make you feel good?”

A choked sound escapes Yuuri’s throat as he exhales, but when he drags in a new breath, Phichit can feel the tension in his back slowly unwind. Yuuri exhales again, a shuddery sound, and the tip of Phichit’s finger sinks in just the slightest bit. He keeps up the steady circles, letting them dip in just a little, but not pushing, not yet.

“That’s so good,” he sighs. “You’re being such a good boy for Victor.”

“For _me_ ,” says Yuuri. His voice is determined, even though it’s shaking just as much as the rest of him.

“What?” Phichit asks, not quite understanding—probably because he’s paying very, very close attention to the way Yuuri’s ass is relaxing, bit by tiny bit, like he’s getting used to the idea.

“Not ‘for Victor,’” says Yuuri. “‘For _me_.’”

It takes Phichit a moment, but then he gets it: if he’s Victor, then Yuuri wants him to _be Victor_. Gone is the idea of showing off for a Victor who isn’t allowed to touch. Gone is the idea of Phichit guiding Yuuri, hovering at the edges of the action, touching and encouraging but not _really_ participating. Yuuri has just invited him straight into his most intimate fantasy.

“Just don’t do the Dracula voice again, all right?” Yuuri adds.

Phichit laughs. “I won’t. I promise.” He leans down and presses a kiss to the base of Yuuri’s spine, open-mouthed and wet, now that he’s allowed. “What a gorgeous ass you have, Yuuri.” He pitches his voice slightly lower than his usual, trying to match Victor’s tone and cadence at least a little, even if the accent is a lost cause. “I’ve thought so for such a long time…”

Yuuri breathes in deeply, and Phichit can feel him loosening beneath his finger. “Victor… you…”

“Do you want me?” Phichit asks, as his finger begins to press, begins to meet with resistance. “Do you want me as much as I want you?”

“Even more than that,” Yuuri pants. “More than anything. Victor. I want—I want—”

“Let me in, Yuuri,” Phichit coaxes, softly kneading Yuuri’s flesh with his other hand. “Just breathe and let me in.”

It takes a few breaths, not just one, but Yuuri’s body, despite its inexperience, seems to sense what to do—and soon Phichit’s finger sinks into the warmth of him.

“You’re so good,” he tells Yuuri. “You wanted this so badly, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes,” comes Yuuri’s reply. “Oh, god.”

Slick with lube, Phichit’s finger slides all the way in, then begins to withdraw, just as slowly.

“Victor, wait, not yet—”

“Shh,” says Phichit. “Be patient, Yuuri. I’m not going anywhere.”

When only the tip of his finger is left inside, he begins to push inward again, and Yuuri groans—a dark, deep sound that makes Phichit’s toes curl. Then out again. In, out, in, out, until Yuuri’s body starts picking up the rhythm that Phichit’s finger is setting. He’s starting to relax, starting to _enjoy_ , and so Phichit nudges his index finger against Yuuri’s rim, a second finger ready to join the first.

“More?” he asks.

“ _Please_ ,” says Yuuri.

Phichit lets go of Yuuri’s ass, reaches down to grab the lube again and flip the cap open, and drizzles it over where his fingers are teasing Yuuri’s opening. When his fingers are drenched, he twists two of them forward, pressing even deeper and harder into Yuuri’s body than before. Between the lube and Yuuri’s enthusiasm, it’s much easier to move now.

“Like this?” Phichit asks, curling his fingers a bit, and Yuuri throws his head back, gasping.

“Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ , Victor, what…” He tosses his head from side-to-side, and his hips buck like he can’t decide whether to run away or to fuck himself harder on Phichit’s fingers. _Victor’s_ fingers.

“That’s it, Yuuri, just take it for me.” Phichit scissors his fingers open as he withdraws, twists them together to push back in, and soon Yuuri is matching his rhythm again, an instinctive movement, uncalculated.

Phichit knows, but Victor would ask. “Has anyone ever touched you like this, Yuuri?”

“N-no,” Yuuri pants.

“No one else has ever seen you like this?”

“No, no, only you… Victor, _please_!”

“What do you need, Yuuri?”

“ _More_.” Yuuri is shoving back against his hand so hard that Phichit’s wrist is cramping up, trying to hold position. He drills his fingers hard against Yuuri’s prostate and Yuuri all but screams into the pillow as his arms give out. He collapses to the bed with his arms folded under his chest and his ass up in the air, suspended by Phichit’s hands on him and inside him.

Yuuri is moaning against his own hands, against the pillow, desperate and helpless little sounds that Phichit can’t make sense of at first. But as his fingers keep rubbing that spot inside Yuuri that makes him sob, he begins to catch words in the noises.

“Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me, please, Victor…_ ”

And Phichit swallows a groan. If Yuuri had begged _him_ , he’s not sure he would’ve been able to resist. He’s been hard for what seems like forever, and as fun as it is to take his best friend apart (and it _is_ fun, he’s having the time of his _life_ ), he’s all too aware that he’s playing a role here. If Yuuri had begged _Phichit_ , Phichit would ask Yuuri if he was sure, would kiss his neck and ask again, and would roll Yuuri to his back so he could see those beautiful brown eyes go wide as Phichit pushed inside him for the first time. And then, after, when Yuuri wasn’t a virgin anymore and they were laughing in each other’s arms, they would have a serious conversation about the nature of their relationship.

But Yuuri wasn’t begging Phichit. He was begging _Victor_. And Victor wouldn’t be so soft.

“Not yet,” Phichit says, pushing three fingers into Yuuri’s body, slow and hard. Yuuri moans. Almost sobs. And Phichit continues: “I plan on savoring this. I hope you know that. You’re so amazing, and nobody gets to do this to you but me.”

“No, no, nobody but you, Victor, fuck me, _fuck_ me,” Yuuri continues, the words slurred and muffled but still understandable.

“And nobody but you gets to feel me inside them,” Phichit adds. “You’ve spent your whole life waiting for me, Yuuri Katsuki. Now I’m all yours.”

Phichit’s fingers curl inside of Yuuri, and Yuuri’s spine arches as he moans. “God, please, _please_ ,” he says. “At least _touch_ me. I feel—Victor—I _need_ —”

Phichit looks down; Yuuri’s balls hang heavily between his legs, and behind them Phichit can see his cock, thickened with desire, flushed dark and _gorgeous_ , and he wants to touch it _so badly_ , but—

But nothing. The rules have changed since he last stopped himself from crossing that line. Everything has changed. He isn’t Phichit anymore; he’s Victor. He’s got one hand plunging slickly, over and over again, into Yuuri’s ass. He’s got Yuuri trembling for him, begging for touch. Why shouldn’t he have this, if only for a moment? Not enough to end things, but enough to satisfy Yuuri’s request.

Letting go of Yuuri’s asscheek, Phichit snakes his free hand around Yuuri’s leg and under his body. He bends his wrist, letting the heel of his hand press up into the soft flesh of Yuuri’s balls—just long enough for Yuuri to gasp at the sudden sensation. Then he pulls away. He extends one finger and drags the pad of it along the underside of Yuuri’s cock. Just lightly. Just enough to elicit another moan.

His finger lands on the swollen head of Yuuri’s cock, and swipes once, feeling the shape of his slit, feeling the creamy fluid leaking from it. Feeling the tension building in Yuuri’s body, slowly, slowly.

Phichit takes his hands away. Both of them. Yuuri, his ass empty and his cock suddenly robbed of touch, lets out a sob. “More, more, you have to, please, _please_ …”

Phichit sits back, taking a moment to look. Not as Victor. Just as himself. Yuuri, his shy roommate and best friend, stripped of both clothing and shame. Yuuri, his ass in the air and his face pressed into his pillow. Yuuri, absolutely wrecked with wanting.

And Phichit can’t help himself. He knows it’s a bad idea. He knows it might ruin everything. But he can’t help it. He reaches out and rests his hands on Yuuri’s hips, and Yuuri trembles beneath him, and he _has_ to ask, just in case the answer is yes.

“Yuuri?” he says, letting his voice fall back into its normal tone. “Can I take a picture of you?”

“Yeah, yes, whatever you want,” Yuuri pants, still lost. And then, “Wait, what?” He turns his head to look back at Phichit, and his face is flushed and his eyes are wet and his hair is _everywhere_ and Phichit’s hand is on his phone before he knows it.

“Please, Yuuri? I wouldn’t show anyone, I promise.” Or well, _actually_. Phichit grins to himself. “Except Victor. I bet he’d love it.”

Yuuri groans and hides his face again, but it doesn’t sound like he’s embarrassed. “Stay in character,” he mumbles, and Phichit laughs because _that’s not a no…_

“For me?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the soft place where Yuuri’s thigh meets his ass. He sinks his teeth in, just a little, because he can’t resist. “Please, Yuuri, I want to remember this moment forever. You’re so incredible, and…”

Yuuri whimpers. And then, he nods. “Okay. Yes, anything, please just… just touch me again.”

“Of course, love,” Phichit says, and starts framing the shot. It’s a little awkward with his off-hand, but he’s had a lot of practice. He makes sure that he’s getting the best angle on the long line of Yuuri’s back, hips pressed up in a high arch. Yuuri’s face is still hidden in the bedding, but it won’t be for long.

Phichit pushes his fingers back into Yuuri’s body. Yuuri lifts his head, cries out in pleasure and relief, and—

_Click._

He obviously can’t stop at only one shot, so he takes a whole burst of photos focused on Yuuri’s face as he fucks himself on Phichit’s fingers: the open, wet O of his mouth just as sexy as the place where they’re joined—just as sexy as the heavy, red hang of his swollen cock between his spread legs. But those deserve attention too. Each piece of Yuuri deserves to be documented, celebrated, remembered forever and ever.

“Touch yourself for me,” Phichit orders. “Put your hand on your cock. Show me how you want it.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, shifting his weight to one shoulder so he can reach underneath himself. “Yes, yes…”

Phichit thrusts his fingers in hard, then pulls them all the way out suddenly. “Yes, who?”

“I, um,” Yuuri starts, and Phichit leans back to take a picture of the way Yuuri’s hips are riding his hand. 

“Tell me, Yuuri,” he leads, and who’s breaking character now? “What’s my name?”

Yuuri gasps when he gets it. “ _Victor_. Victor, please, please _fuck me_ …”

Phichit puts the phone down and reaches for the dildo and a condom, ripping the foil packet open with his teeth and sliding the latex down to cover the toy. The condom is lubricated, but Phichit slicks up his hand with the lube anyway, making sure everything is nice and wet. He rubs the excess up the crease of Yuuri’s ass, dipping his fingertips in just enough to tease.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says, and presses the tip of the dildo to Yuuri’s hole.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, as the silicone cock slides in, in, in, stretching and filling him, millimeter by slow millimeter. “Oh, fuck, oh, _oh fuck_.”

“Good?” Phichit asks.

“Yes, oh god yes, _yes_ …”

“More?” Phichit asks.

“Yesyesyes. Wait, no no no, it’s too much, Phich— _Victor_ —I’m about to—”

“Stop touching yourself,” Phichit orders.

Yuuri complies immediately, a sob wracking his body as his poor cock is forsaken yet again. But it works. He doesn’t come. What he does do is pull himself up again, so he’s on his hands and knees. He looks over his shoulder at Phichit. He takes a deep breath, and he says, “Don’t let me come. Not till it’s all the way inside.”

Phichit squashes the impulse to hug Yuuri; he’s just so _good_ at this. But it wouldn’t exactly be appropriate, given the circumstances. So he just grins, a feral baring of teeth, and he tells Yuuri, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Guided by Phichit’s expert hand, the dildo pushes in and in, swallowed up by Yuuri’s greedy body. Phichit twists it a little, just to see if Yuuri likes the way it tugs at the skin of his rim—and oh, look at that. He does. A shudder courses through Yuuri’s body, and he makes the loveliest noise. Phichit keeps pushing.

It’s almost two-thirds of the way in, which is about where Phichit likes it to be before he starts fucking himself on it—but Yuuri said _all the way_ , and Phichit has every intention of giving Yuuri what he wants.

“Do you like having my cock inside you?” Phichit asks, pitching his voice lower again. “Does it feel good, Yuuri?”

“Y-yeah, it feels…” Yuuri’s head is hanging down between his shoulders now; Phichit can’t see his face. “Is there more? I want more. I want it all, Victor, _please_.”

Yuuri’s voice is cracked and frayed. His whole body shines with sweat. He smells like desire, and he looks like heaven, and Phichit can’t help thinking that the real Victor Nikiforov, wherever he is and whoever he’s fucking in real life, has _no idea_ what he’s missing.

“Of course,” Phichit says, easing the dildo even further in. “Anything for you, Yuuri. Anything at all. You just have to ask.”

In, in, in. Yuuri moans, and Phichit pushes, and soon there’s nothing left but the bulbous base, which isn’t meant for going inside.

“More,” Yuuri whines. “More.”

Phichit laughs, delighted. “There isn’t any more, Yuuri.”

“Some living legend you are, _Victor_ ,” Yuuri growls—and oh, god, was that a _joke_? Did Phichit Chulanont just get to hear Yuuri Katsuki making a joke about the size of…?

This is the best day of Phichit’s life.

“We’ll see about that,” he counters, and starts to draw the dildo out again. And then in. He starts to set a rhythm, and Yuuri’s hips start to match it, and if Yuuri wants more? More is what Phichit will give him.

He doesn’t speed up, just keeps the pace slow and even, but he pushes in _hard_ , working against the movement of Yuuri’s hips just enough to make sure the toy grinds against his prostate with every stroke. Yuuri bucks back into him, trying to get it deeper and faster.

“So greedy,” Phichit says, eyes locked on where the red silicone disappears into Yuuri’s body. “You’re a natural, Yuuri. You take me so well…”

“Please,” Yuuri begs. “Please, _please_ …”

“What is it? What do you want?” asks Phichit, and Yuuri shakes his head, drops it to hang between his arms, rocking back and forth with the movement of his body. It’s not an answer at all.

Phichit moves his hand a little faster, grips Yuuri’s hips to pull him back in the rhythm that he wants to set, and Yuuri’s breath punches out of him in a series of breathless little cries. “Ah, ah, _ah_!”

“Is that it? Is that how you need it?” Phichit asks.

“Yeah, oh, yeah,” Yuuri pants. Then: “No, god, I don’t know, I don’t know, _don’t stop_ …”

Phichit slaps his hip, thrusts the dildo in all the way to the base and holds it there. “Get on your side for me.”

“I said _don’t_ stop,” Yuuri protests, pushing back against the toy even as he complies. He keeps his face pressed to the pillow, his hands fisted in it as he curls onto his side. Phichit puts his hand in the back of Yuuri’s knee and presses it all the way to his chest, opening him up in half a split. Dancer flexibility is such a lovely thing. He straddles the leg Yuuri has resting on the bed, and slides his hand up from the back of Yuuri’s raised knee to grip his ankle, then lifts it, hooking Yuuri’s leg over his shoulder. 

Yuuri makes a surprised noise when his leg is pressed flat against Phichit’s chest, and Phichit thinks he’s complaining about the stretch until—

“You still have your clothes on?”

Phichit laughs. “This is all about you, Yuuri. I don’t need to get undressed to take you apart.” In this position the dildo is almost, but not quite, where his own dick would be, close enough that Phichit can put the back of his wrist against his hip and hold it steady, using his hips to fuck it harder into Yuuri.

Yuuri _howls_.

Phichit spares a quick thought for their poor neighbors, but in the end it just makes him grin even wider, thrust even harder. Let them hear Yuuri sobbing, groaning, grunting. Let them imagine whatever they want. Not a single one of them gets to see Yuuri like Phichit is seeing him right now.

“Harder, harder, I want, I want—”

“What do you want?” Phichit asks, his own voice going rough with the effort of pushing, with the effort of not grabbing his own dick and finally giving himself some relief. “Tell me, Yuuri.”

“I need to, I want,” Yuuri says.

“You want to come?”

“Yy-yesss.” It’s barely a word. “Need. Please, please.”

Phichit drills the toy harder and harder, over and over, his vision going glassy with the sight of it all. Yuuri, splayed out and sweat-slick and open-mouthed, his darkened cock jerking helplessly with the movement of his body, with the sensation of the dildo against his prostate.

“Touch yourself, Yuuri,” he says. “Go on. I want to see how gorgeous you are when you come for me.”

Yuuri’s fingers dig into the sheets. “ _No_. Your hand. Not mine. Please, just, _please_.”

So Phichit reaches. The angle makes it a little difficult, but if he adjusts just a little bit, he can manage it—and if this is what Yuuri wants, then this is what he’ll do. He slides his hand over the head of Yuuri’s swollen cock, making him writhe. There’s enough fluid there that he doesn’t even need the lube before he begins to stroke.

But the stroking doesn’t last long. This rhythm is easier for Yuuri to find, or maybe just more familiar—and within seconds, Phichit is simply holding his fingers in a circle, letting Yuuri fuck his hand. Hips snapping forward and forward, head thrown back, Yuuri is utterly lost to his own desires. What Phichit wouldn’t give for a third hand so he could take just one more picture. Just one. But he only has the two, so he lets Yuuri set the rhythm, then adjusts the toy’s rhythm to match.

“Victor, I’m—Victor—Phichit—I’m about to—I can’t stop—”

Sure enough, Phichit can feel Yuuri’s balls tightening with every upward stroke. His thrusts are coming faster and faster, too fast for Phichit to do anything with the dildo except let Yuuri ride it. And then—

One last thrust. Taut, thrumming stillness. A sob, escaping from deep within Yuuri’s body. Tears squeezing out of his eyes. And wave after wave of white fluid, spilling out of Yuuri’s cock and onto the duvet. He comes so hard, so _much_ , his belly and the bed both soaked with it; and he’s still shaking, hands clenched in the pillow, his head thrown back and his mouth open wide in a soundless scream.

It’s so hot. _It’s so hot_ , and Phichit only becomes aware that he’s been grinding himself against Yuuri’s thigh when he’s suddenly so close he’s not sure he can stop it.

“Yuuri, _Yuuri_ , can I?” he begs, desperate, but Yuuri is still lost in the aftermath of his orgasm, eyes squeezed tightly shut. His ass is still clenching rhythmically around the dildo, pushing it back against Phichit’s hand, and Phichit can almost feel that pulse around his cock.

Oh god, he can’t wait any longer. He has to, he _has_ to—

Phichit takes the hand that’s still wet with Yuuri’s semen and plunges it into his underwear, barely getting two strokes in before he’s coming, making a sticky mess of the inside of his shorts. His mouth is open against Yuuri’s trembling ankle, and he kisses it, open mouthed and sloppy, panting as he comes down. He eases Yuuri’s leg down to the bed, turning him gently to his back before easing the dildo out of his body.

“Oh… _ah_!” Yuuri whimpers, quiet and shaky as the silicone slides free. He’s thrown his arms over his face, hiding even as the rest of him is so beautifully on display: his heaving chest, flushed all the way to his navel; the glistening evidence of his release painting his stomach; his cock, dark pink and wet where it lies in a soft curl against his thigh; the open splay of his hips, legs still spread, framing the way his rim is still twitching weakly, clenching at nothing.

Phichit’s hand is filthy, but he doesn’t care. He picks up his phone and takes another picture. And one more, just to be sure. It’s so hot, Yuuri’s so gorgeous, and Phichit has to keep it forever.

Yuuri’s breath is still sobbing out of him, and he reaches out towards Phichit, one arm still hiding his eyes. “Vic… _Phichit_ , I’m sorry, could you, um…”

His breath hitches wetly, and he can’t finish the question, but Phichit understands. He drops the phone immediately and scrambles up the bed, pulling Yuuri into his arms. Yuuri curls into him, crying softly against his throat, and Phichit’s got come all over his shirt and his jeans and he absolutely does not care.

“Yuuri,” he soothes, holding his friend tight. “Yuuri, are you okay?”

Yuuri nods against him, but he’s still crying and he doesn’t answer in words. So, maybe yes and maybe no. Maybe both at the same time. So Phichit just holds him, rubbing one palm in slow circles across Yuuri’s back.

“Shh,” he says, over and over, until Yuuri’s tears start to slow. “Shh, it’s all right. Shh. I’ve got you.”

“I never thought…” When he finally speaks, Yuuri’s voice is fat with tears and muffled against Phichit’s skin.

“You never thought what?”

“All this,” says Yuuri, somewhat mysteriously. “Everything. That I could be… it’s… it’s just so _much_.”

The words don’t make much sense, but Phichit thinks he knows exactly what Yuuri’s trying to say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “It is. Are you feeling better now?”

“I’m… something,” Yuuri replies, and kisses Phichit’s neck. Phichit’s neck. A _kiss_. Suddenly, Phichit feels like he just might start crying, too. At least, until Yuuri continues, sort of drowsily: “I feel like I’m made of lightning and feathers.”

Phichit laughs and hugs his friend even tighter. “Oh yeah, you’re all right. Everything’s all right.”

“The blankets aren’t all right,” Yuuri murmurs. This thought seems to wake him up, because that’s when he finally lifts his head from Phichit’s neck. “I don’t have any extras. I have to _sleep_ on these.”

“I have extras you can borrow till you wash yours,” says Phichit. Then pauses. “Or… you could just come sleep in my bed for tonight.”

Yuuri’s eyes meet his, and Phichit realizes that he’s still stroking Yuuri’s back. He _likes_ stroking Yuuri’s back.

“I’d have to shower first,” Yuuri says.

“Oh, believe me,” Phichit replies, “so do I.”

Yuuri smiles, but he doesn’t answer. He’s looking at Phichit. Just looking. And Phichit is still stroking Yuuri’s back. Phichit isn’t sure who leans in first. Maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s Yuuri, but either way, their lips meet.

They kiss silently, almost chastely, by the dim light of Yuuri’s laptop screen. Their lips move only a little, and their tongues never come into play at all. It feels like sweetness; like dessert after dinner. It feels necessary.

But then they pull apart, and Yuuri tries to stand up, and whatever solemnity the moment held is utterly ruined by the “Oh god, _ow_ ” that escapes him.

“Oh, yeah,” says Phichit. “You’re gonna feel that for a _while_.”

Then he starts laughing, because he can’t help it—and then Yuuri starts laughing too, covering his face with his hands.

Jumping up from the bed, Phichit says, “Let me just wash my hands before you take a shower. And my phone. Oh crap. My poor phone.”

He darts into the bathroom and takes care of it; the phone isn’t any worse for wear, and the little smudges on the screen aren’t anything a few dabs of wet tissue can’t fix. “All yours,” he says, coming out into the main room again.

But Yuuri’s eyes are suddenly trained on the phone. “Did you really, um, take pictures of me?”

“Oh, yeah, a bunch! They’re amazing! Want to see?”

“I… uh…” Yuuri takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Phichit will never understand people who don’t want to see pictures of themselves as soon as they’re taken, but he nods anyway. “Just let me know.”

“And I think you said so already, but please, just… promise me you won’t show anyone else.”

Phichit holds up a hand, splaying his fingers in what might be an American Boy Scout salute, or might be a Vulcan salute. He’s not sure which. “I promised before, and I promise again now. I won’t ever show anyone. Except Victor Nikiforov.”

“ _Phichit_ ,” Yuuri laughs. “No. Not even him. _Especially_ not him.”

“How about this?” Phichit says. “If you ever get to compete against Victor, then I get to show him.”

“No. Oh my god, no.”

“If you ever _beat_ him in competition, _then_ I get to show him.”

“First of all, that will never happen. Second of all, just in case it does, _no_.”

Phichit’s laughing too, by now. He honestly can’t wait until Yuuri’s in the shower and he gets to go through all of those gorgeous photos, one by one.

“Well, okay,” he says. “Final offer. If you and Victor ever get married, _then_ I get to show him.”

“You’re not going to stop, are you?”

Phichit shoots Yuuri the brightest grin he can muster.

“Fine,” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes. “On the day I marry the literal hottest man in the entire world, then you can show Victor the pictures.”

Phichit kisses his phone. “Deal.”

 

** Epilogue **

The wedding was beautiful, the sakura trees obligingly in bloom, petals falling softly to make the most perfect picturesque backdrop to Victor and Yuuri’s vows. All of Hasetsu had turned out, it seemed, plus most of the international figure skating community and a good deal of press. Shutters clicked and flashes sparked, capturing every beautiful moment.

Phichit’s not ashamed about crying during the ceremony, as he handed the ring over and watched his best friend give it to the man he loves. The man he’s _always_ loved. Phichit was so happy, his heart so full, as he watched Victor and Yuuri kiss for the first time as _husbands_. It was almost enough to make him believe in fairytales, in _happily-ever-after_ , now.

During the ceremony, as he palmed the ring in his pocket, he wasn’t nervous at all. But now? Now, his hand is uncomfortably sweaty around the flash drive he’s been carrying all day. The flash drive he’s kept for nearly six _years_. It’s small and silver, unlabeled and unremarkable; its contents exist nowhere else in the world.

Phichit has revisited those contents many times, and even made a few additions since the first set of photographs; all of them lovingly curated and cleaned up in Photoshop in an effort to do justice to their subject. There are even some alternate sets that have been artistically filtered for maximum effect. He’s very proud of them.

Phichit once swore to never, ever show these photographs to another living soul. _Unless..._

“Victor!” he says, all enthusiasm, throwing his arm over exquisitely suited shoulders. With some apparent effort, Victor looks away from his new husband, who’s currently dancing with all three of the Nishigori triplets at once. “Can I have a word?”

“Of course!” Victor says, letting himself be led away from the reception. “Is this the shovel talk? Isn’t it a little late for that now?”

Phichit laughs. “No, it’s not that. Although, now that you mention it, if you ever do anything to make Yuuri sad, I will absolutely cut your dick off with my skates.”

Victor frowns. “That’s… specific.”

“It is,” Phichit agrees cheerfully. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I have a gift for you.”

He brings them to a stop in an empty hallway, far enough from the reception that it’s barely more than white noise in the background. Victor tilts his head a little. “Oh? Shouldn’t Yuuri be here too, then?”

“No, it’s just for you,” says Phichit, weirdly nervous all of a sudden. “Yuuri, um, doesn’t exactly know about it. Or, well, he _knows_ about it, sure, but… he… let’s just say he wouldn’t want to be reminded in front of all these people.”

Phichit grabs his hand and drops the flash drive into it. Victor looks at the tiny silver device, then back at Phichit. He looks very, very concerned.

“These pictures,” Phichit says solemnly, closing Victor’s hand over the flash drive, “are the best pictures ever taken, of anything, by anyone. _Ever_. I promised Yuuri that I’d never show them to anyone but you—and I wouldn’t even show _you_ unless you two got married. So, now…” He steps back, spreading his arms wide. “Hey! Congratulations!”

Understanding is beginning to dawn on Victor’s face. He looks _painfully_ curious. “Phichit—are there pictures _of Yuuri_ on this thing?”

“Take a look for yourself.” With a grin, Phichit starts back towards the party. But then he stops, because he can’t resist looking back over his shoulder and adding: “You’re the luckiest man in the whole fucking world, Victor Nikiforov. I hope you know that.”

Victor grins right back, and pockets the drive. “Oh, I do. I absolutely do.”


End file.
